Waking
by Loafer
Summary: Lassiet one-shot fluff. A little sleep, a little dreaming, a little story.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own _**psych**_, and very few people here want to read Lassiet, but booyah anyway.

**Rating**: T and a half.

**Summary**: Lassiet, duh. One-shot fluff. This occurred to me a few hours ago and I wrote it down and now here it is.

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He woke to find Juliet getting into his bed.

He had no doubt that it was her despite the dimness of the room—he knew her scent alone—and he had no concern or surprise or even a desire to ask her why she was there or what she wanted.

She didn't seem afraid, and she didn't seem to have any hesitation, and he decided it was a dream when she pulled the sheet down and straddled him, cupping his face before she kissed him softly.

Yes, and a very _good_ dream.

Juliet was wearing a soft tee in some color he couldn't make out in the seconds before she pulled it off and cast it aside, and her lack of a bra was an even more pleasant surprise. His hands moved automatically to caress her, and she sighed and bent to kiss him again.

He thought about asking her why she was there, but only once or twice. In fact he said nothing to her at all, nor she to him. They kissed, and they removed each others' clothing, and they made love, and it was incredible and amazing and all those other words made just for her.

In the morning, he rolled over knowing she would be gone, because it was only a dream.

Except he was nude, and his pajamas were on the floor.

Carlton rubbed his face hard.

No, it had to be a dream: she did have a key to his place, but he was a light sleeper. Many a night he'd woken up instantly ready to shoot an intruder based on the _slightest_ of unusual noises in the condo; there was no way she could have entered and gotten as far as his bedroom without him stirring. No one was that quiet in an unfamiliar setting.

So it was a dream.

Didn't explain the light scratches he could feel on his back, stinging as soap ran down his skin during his shower.

But he knew for sure it was a dream when she got to work later; she was her usual Juliet self, sunny and good-natured, and didn't behave at all like a woman who'd moaned out her pleasure in the night as he ravished her.

Well. He could stand a few dreams like that, yes he could.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The second time she came to him, he woke—woke?—as she stood beside the bed. She was slipping off her shirt and smiling at him, and he slid over so she could lie beside him, draping her leg over his hip and kissing him languorously.

It was four days since the last dream, and this one was just as good. Just as detailed—how soft was her skin, how willful her mouth on his flesh. She was so warm and silky all over. He ran his fingers through her hair as he explored her mouth, feeling her undulating against him: her breasts rubbing his chest and her nether regions grinding most erotically against his.

So damned good. Best sex ever. Best _dream_-sex ever, he amended, as he rolled her over and took control.

In the morning, he was nude and alone again, but he could still smell her fragrance.

Yet it was _not_ _possible_ for her to have gotten in—and out—again completely undetected (was he not Carlton Lassiter? Did he not have a sixth-sense about intruders?), and beyond that, why in the hell would she suddenly start making late-night booty calls? They were partners. She had an ongoing flirtation with Spencer, God help her, and had never been interested in Carlton as more than a friend.

At work, he watched her carefully. Just as in the days before, she gave no sign of… anything. She was just Juliet, working hard, being nice to him—no more nice than usual—and behaving completely normally.

He could ask her, he supposed, and then he mentally shot himself in the head for being such a dumbass.

_Just leave it: if it's not real, appreciate it, and if it is real, she obviously doesn't intend to talk about it_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

A few nights later, it was her kiss which stirred him. She was already nude and had tugged his sheet down, and her hot mouth was insistently rousing him in more ways than one.

Carlton pulled her tight to his body and tried to own her, like trying to own the warm breeze of a summer day, and Juliet molded herself to him. Always the kisses were everything. Where they joined elsewhere was nirvana, but to kiss her was beyond nirvana. Feeling her needs and emotions expressed with a kiss touched him heart and soul.

That night, she rode him home, head thrown back, breath fast and uneven, with Carlton's hands on her hips to anchor her, and when she had drawn everything from him—everything—she collapsed on his chest and murmured something he couldn't hear.

It was the first words she'd spoken in these dreams and he was afraid to ask her to repeat them, so he simply stroked her damp back and her soft hair and in the morning, her absence didn't surprise him in the least.

Work was getting better, if that was possible. The job was still the job: scumbag criminals, asshat lawyers, Spencer prancing around like he owned the place. But Carlton felt as if he and Juliet were even more of a united front than ever, and he even thought she seemed less responsive to Spencer's flirtations.

_Your imagination_, he reminded himself, _is already out of control_.

But at the same time, he was a _detective_. He was the damned _head_ detective, no less, and he had to know whether he was losing his mind or Juliet was really coming to him in the middle of the night.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He was pushing into her; long slow drags, delicious and agonizingly pleasurable.

It had been a week since the last dream, and when he woke to find her, she was standing in the doorway nude, moonlight from the living room backlighting her in sort of a halo. Fitting, he thought. She _was_ lovely like an angel.

Now her legs were locked around his thighs and he was taking from her everything she had to offer.

He took something else in those moments, something he knew he shouldn't take… he took proof. Or tried to.

He fastened his mouth to the base of her lovely throat… and left his mark.

She was lost to her orgasm so he had no idea whether she knew what he was doing was intentional; and then moments later he was lost himself, but they found each other in the afterglow and held on tight.

Carlton kissed her, holding her shaking body, and Juliet kissed back with the sweet heat he had come to love as much as he already loved her.

Come the dawn, he lay alone in his bed, knowing he'd have his answer the moment she walked into the station.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She wore a blouse with a high collar.

_Damn. It._

This wasn't an unusual wardrobe choice for her, so it could have been coincidence.

Besides, she again behaved normally, so… it could have been coincidence.

_What next: leave a hickey on her forehead? Dumbass._

He had a long talk with himself.

On the one hand, okay, he'd been in love with his partner for years and there wasn't anything inherently unusual about having sex dreams (_love dreams_) about her or any other attractive woman who was nice to him. Despite how real they seemed.

On the other hand, if these were truly only very _very_ detailed dreams, did it mean he was cracking up? Was he going to completely lose his mind and refer to them during the workday? Was he going to reveal himself as some kind of sex maniac?

On the one foot, what if she _was_ actually coming to him (_with_ him) to silently make love? Why was it something she didn't want to discuss? Juliet liked things out in the open, and he knew instinctively she wasn't a casual hook-up kind of woman as well as that she took the whole 'no interoffice romance' thing seriously.

On the other foot, she had to know he couldn't keep quiet forever. It wasn't in his nature to not ask questions about matters which puzzled him: it was part of being a detective. True, he was less likely to ask questions about _emotional_ matters, but there were limits.

Carlton didn't know what to do.

So he just let it keep happening.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She was back in his bed a few nights later, no trace of the hickey and no comments made (but then there were never comments made beyond moans).

Three more times after that, she came to his bed over the next few weeks. Three more mind-meltingly good love-making sessions.

He figured out one element to his satisfaction. If he wasn't dreaming all this, his main question was about how she could get in without him hearing.

And once he got it, it seemed like a big duh: he was attuned to strangers, to dangers, to something being wrong.

But Juliet being there was something _right_. He wanted her there. She belonged there. She completed the condo rather than throwing it off-kilter. There was no danger, no threat, no dark side.

She was love, whether she spoke it or not: she brought it, she gave it, and she accepted it.

All wordlessly, all expressed with kisses and sighs.

While she was in his bed, in his arms, she was his. And while they were at work…

She was… also… his.

_Huh._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton opened his eyes to find Juliet sitting on the edge of his bed.

The clock read two a.m. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, shoving one hand through his hair, feeling uneasy.

"Hey," she whispered.

Talking. Was that good?

He gathered himself. "You're dressed."

She glanced down at her tee and jeans. "Yeah."

"So you're saying goodbye."

Juliet blinked. "I hope not."

Confusing. He looked at her awhile, and she held his gaze. He almost thought she was hesitant.

"Why did you start coming to me?"

She sat on the bed, cross-legged, taking a breath before she answered. "Because I love you."

Carlton, had he been standing, would have gone weak in the knees. As it was, he was damned glad for the headboard to stop him flopping over.

With a smile, she said it again: "I love you, Carlton. I told you the third night I was here, but I don't think you heard me."

He swallowed. "But you… but I… I don't understand."

"It took me a while to see it for what it was, and then I realized I had a big problem, because it's not like I could just walk up to Mr. Skeptic and say hey, let's be a couple. I knew you'd have doubts and you'd want to talk me out of it or some dumbass thing like that. So for a long time I didn't do anything at all, but one night…" She paused, and smiled once more. "I just decided to come over here and take you by the hand."

And not just by the _hand_. "You… how did you get in without me hearing?" He _knew_, but then again, maybe she'd found some secret passageway.

Juliet laughed. "I don't know. Truthfully, I expected to have a gun pointed at me before I even got to the sofa. But you stayed asleep until I was all the way in, and it was like that every time. You never seemed surprised and you never stirred when I was leaving."

"I thought I was having… what are they called… lucid dreams."

"Everything was real, Carlton." She scooted closer, so she could take his hand. "Do you love me? No… let me rephrase. Are you going to admit you love me?"

"Yes."

_That was easy. Heart didn't blow up or anything._

Her brilliant smile lit the room. "Would you like to say it?"

"I love you. But…"

She squeezed his hand. "But?"

"Why are you here and dressed and acting like you have something else to say?"

"Because I have something else to say," she admitted, "and I don't know how you're going to react. Decided I'd better keep my clothes on in case I have to run out of here."

Carlton was afraid. "Are you leaving town?"

"No."

"Are you asking for a new partner?"

"No," she laughed, "although the Chief might have her own idea about that."

"Are you about to start dating Spencer?"

"Never, and bite your tongue."

"Then what?"

So softly, contrasting with how hard she gripped his hand, she whispered, "I'm pregnant."

To say the room spun… to say the world shifted… to say his heart went galloping down the hall and back… those were all close.

He grabbed her other hand and pulled her to him, breathing in her scent before he kissed her deeply.

"Yeah," she explained as she wormed her way under the blanket, "turns out unprotected sex _can_ lead to babies."

"Who knew," he agreed, kissing her face and her temples and her mouth. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Are you?"

Carlton cupped her face. "The woman I've loved for years has been coming to my bed for the last two months to give herself to me, and now she's pregnant with my baby. Yes. I am okay."

"I mean, we haven't even been on a date." She was unbuttoning his pajama shirt.

"Formality." He tugged at her tee.

"And you aren't just going to be a dad, you know." Her hands slipped under the waistband of his pants.

"What else am I going to be?" He'd unhooked her bra and was touching her warm skin.

"You're going to be a husband."

Carlton stopped and smiled, and Juliet kissed him in the middle of it. "Are you proposing?"

"Are you accepting?"

He pretended to think it over, and when she squeezed him south of the border a little too firmly in protest, he rolled her over and pinned her to the mattress (not that she objected).

"Yes. I accept."

"And you love me."

"Yes, I love you."

"And I'm the best partner you ever had."

"Yes, you are."

"And you'll make me the happiest woman in the world every day."

"I'll try," he whispered.

Juliet kissed him, tears in her eyes. "Then we don't have to talk anymore tonight."

Not with words, anyway. Not with words.

**. . . .**

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**E N D**


End file.
